deep breathing

He sat there, bottom lip hanging low, eyes red, not what I had expected.

He bent over, rocking back and forth in the chair.  Barely audible voice.

What happens when a child cries and you're not allowed to hold him?

What happens when the world breaks a child early, quietly, for no reason.

And your job is to sit across the table from him and tell him it gets better.

Breathe in, you count one two three four.

Make your belly big, blow it up like a balloon.

Breathe out, count for me.

Let it all go.

This doesn't work, he whispered.

And he's right.

Breathing through it won't make it better.

It won't ease the pain.

But she had said, "pain doesn't like calm".

And I have to believe this.

That within us is a quiet place, and the quiet place protects us from the pain, maybe.

Maybe the quiet place can get bigger, so it's not so hard to find.

And we can run there, when all else goes to hell.

Sanctuary.

His eyes filled with tears and his face pour with spit and snot.

He wasn't scared of me, just uncomfortable.

I didn't do anything wrong, but could I please stop talking about it?

They wanted a pill to make it go away and I stared at him.

Cracked open.

No facial hair.  No deep voice.  Skin smooth and face full.

She knew what he had been through, she whispered.

She took the pill that made it go all away.

Debilitated, was the word she used.

Her high expectations were clear.  Performance was important.

Paramount, perhaps.

And when we expect so much, when we demand so much, it can eat us.

So little warmth.

Maybe because the world breaks us ruthlessly.

And unless we are surrounded by those who teach us how to rebuild,

Sometimes we stay living in the rubble.

Whole face flushed and wet, he rocked.

And my arms hurt.

Do I want that role?  The role that can't comfort?  The role that can't soothe?

How do I learn how to soothe, provide relief, in any way except for listening.

Deep breathing doesn't make the pain go away.